


Locked Rooms

by Lefaym



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Aunt Prudence ex machina, F/M, Locked In, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/pseuds/Lefaym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing Jack had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time -- but now it has made Phryne's life rather more complicated. Can Dot, Hugh, and Aunt Prudence save the day?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked Rooms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LovelyPoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyPoet/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, LovelyPoet! Thank you for your prompt and for giving me the chance to spend time writing in the wonderful work of Miss Fisher!
> 
> And my thanks to pocky_slash for the wonderful beta-job, and to fera_festiva for cheerleading!

In Phryne’s defence (not that she needed one), there had been a very good chance that she and Jack were going to die in that old wine cellar. The demolition crew had started wrecking the house above, and no amount of shouting had yielded results. They had used every last one of Phryne’s matches trying to find another way out, or at least a place they could shield themselves, but to no avail. There seemed to be nothing for it but to lean back against the wall and breathe deeply, in the hope that a flash of inspiration would come to her.

Of course, there wasn’t a great deal of room in the cellar, and the pitch-black darkness didn’t exactly help with fine maneuvering. It was really rather inevitable that leaning against the wall involved leaning against Jack too. Feeling the heat of his breath against her neck, the warm pressure of his hand on her arm… turning her head in towards his, and moving in closer, so she could feel the hard line of his body through the fabric of her dress.

“Phryne,” said Jack, his voice low. “Phryne, I…”

She kissed him. 

She curled her hands into his hair, pulled him in close, and kissed him with every fibre of her being. Because really, Phryne had no intention of going to her grave without ravishing Jack Robinson at least once. Fortunately, judging by the sounds he was making in the back of his throat, and the way his arms encircled her waist and and pulled her in, the good Detective Inspector had every intention of allowing himself to be thoroughly ravished.

The initial evidence suggested that Jack would prove rather talented at the whole ravishing business too. He moaned beautifully when she pressed him harder against the wall, and when she reversed their positions and hooked her leg around his hip, he let a hand fall to her thigh; his clever fingers worked their way underneath her slip, and -- _Oh_ \-- teased the sensitive skin just inside her drawers. 

Phryne shifted so she could feel the full length of Jack’s arousal against her, and she worked a hand between them, as Jack pressed his mouth against her neck. She found the first button of his fly and --

She cried out as an almighty bang shook the cellar. The room suddenly flooded with light, and after no small amount of blinking, that light revealed two rather shocked faces looking down at them.

“Miss Fisher?” said Dot.

“Sir?” said Hugh.

“Well,” said Phryne, as a peculiar mixture of relief and disappointment coursed through her veins. “This isn’t awkward in the least.”

* * *

She had lied, of course. This whole situation was dreadfully awkward, and since as a general rule Phryne simply didn’t _do_ awkward, she found herself rather out of her depth. Not that this was the first time she’d been discovered _in flagrante delicto_ ; no, she had been caught in far more compromising positions in the past (the incident with the Romanian flautist had been particularly memorable, though the Moroccan undergraduate also warranted an honourable mention). None of those past incidents, however, had ever involved _Jack_.

Jack, who argued with her, and shared clues with her, and sipped cocktails in her living room as they discussed everything from Shakespearean sonnets to the latest developments in forensic science. Jack, who was so good and kind, and who somehow managed to surprise her at every turn. Jack, who looked at her as though she was some kind of strange and dangerous animal as they removed themselves from the cellar, who spoke to her in such stilted tones as they made their statements, who took his leave with a hasty, “Good night, Miss Fisher,” and wouldn’t even catch her eye.

This was truly and utterly unacceptable.

The problem was, in this extremely singular case, Phryne was not entirely certain as to how she could make things acceptable again. One did not simply attempt to have her way with Jack Robinson, and then expect everything to return to normal the next day. Or the day after that.

It didn’t help that Dot was also behaving strangely. Oh, she’d got over her shock quickly enough -- Dot was familiar enough with Phryne’s ways now that very little could shock her for long -- but she was oddly quiet for long stretches at a time, and she kept smiling when she thought Phryne wasn’t looking. Phryne would have suspected she was indulging in Hugh-themed daydreams, but Dot didn’t bother to hide that from her anymore.

Finally, on the third day after the incident, Dot gave her a clue.

“Miss?” said Dot, when she saw that Phryne had barely touched the rather spectacular scrambled eggs that Mr Butler had made for her breakfast-in-bed.

“I’m afraid I’m not hungry, Dot.”

“You haven’t finished a single meal these last few days.”

“I’ve not been feeling well,” said Phyne.

“Hmm,” said Dot. And there was that smile again.

Phryne turned herself over and buried her face in her satin pillowcase.

“You know, Miss,” said Dot, her voice wavering just a little, “you could simply try… talking to him. To the Detective Inspector, I mean.”

Phryne grew very still as something rather hollow seemed to open up in the pit of her stomach. She was reminded, suddenly, of herself instructing Dot to ask Hugh to the Fireman’s Ball.

“Oh, _Dot_ ,” said Phryne. “If only it were that simple.”

“Perhaps it is,” said Dot.

Phryne turned her head to the side to look at her companion. “You wouldn’t understand, Dot,” she said, and the words came out far more sharply than Phryne had intended.

Dot flushed. She squared her shoulders and pulled herself up to her full height. “I know more about love than you might think, Miss Fisher.”

With that, Dot turned on her heels and left the room.

Well. Phryne had to smile in spite of everything. Dot really did have a marvellous backbone when the situation called for it. Phryne promised herself that she would give Dot an extra afternoon off this week. And she would buy her a new hat the next time they were in town. It really had been very wrong of her to snap at Dot like that.

Dot was right about one thing: eventually Phryne would need to talk to Jack. Melbourne’s murderers were not going to go on holiday on account of Phryne’s heart. Really, it would be far better if she and Jack sorted this out _before_ the next murder. Or if they at least found a way to avoid sorting it out that allowed them to continue on as they had been before.

The latter option was particularly attractive, Phryne decided.

Of course, if she was going to have any luck with that, she needed to start acting like herself, even if she didn’t quite feel it yet. Phryne forced herself to sit up and eat every bite of Mr Butler’s scrambled eggs, which were hardly less splendid for being nearly cold. Then, she pulled herself out of bed, and stepped into her en suite.

Phryne took several long, deep breaths as she filled the bath with hot water and her favourite salts. She allowed her muscles to relax as steam filled the air, and when she finally stepped into the hot water she savoured every moment. The scented liquid enveloped her; it sang to every nerve in her body. What she needed now was a memory, one that had nothing to do with what had happened this week. Fortunately, Phryne had a lot of memories.

There was the week with Anton in the south of France, or that night in Dublin when she’d taken Finn back to her hotel for a few private lessons in _Gaeilge_. Or there was the nameless American she’d met in London, whose eyes had been so lost, but who had been so very skillful with his tongue, whose hands had caressed her thighs so beautifully. Phryne slipped a hand between her legs, and remembered Anton kissing her neck, and Finn pressing her against the wall as he whispered in her ear; she remembered her mournful American, drinking her in, breathing in the scent of her, and she imagined that all three of them were doing it at once, and, _oh, oh_ , the heat flashed from her belly to her groin, it was lovely, it was wonderful, it was almost as nice as the thought of Jack biting down on her shoulder and moaning as he pressed inside her, and _oh_ , she’d feel so full, so good, and she would move against him, finding exactly the right rhythm, and it would be perfect, perfect after holding back for so very long--

Phryne’s back arched, and a soft cry escaped her lips as her orgasm took her. For a moment, she revelled in the afterglow -- one glorious moment, before she realised that her plan to distract herself from Jack Robinson had failed spectacularly.

“Damn,” said Phryne.

* * *

Fortunately, having determined that she was going to buck up, Phryne was not going to be defeated by a small masturbatory lapse in judgment. Really, all this moping about would not do. Phryne dried herself off quickly and selected her favourite off-white pantsuit and the string of black pearls she’d acquired in Paris three years ago. A pair of low heels and some skillfully applied lipstick and rouge finished the job: perhaps she didn’t quite feel like herself just yet, but at least she looked the part.

Phryne breezed down the stairs, as though nothing at all was wrong, and found Dot shelling peas with Mr Butler in the kitchen. She made her apologies to her companion profusely and with genuine remorse. Dot insisted that no apology was necessary and Mr Butler discreetly pretended not to hear a word of it. In this little part of the world, at least, all was well.

As for the rest of it… Phryne imagined herself standing up and walking to the door. She thought about stepping into her Hispano-Suiza, and driving off to City South Police Station as quickly as the laws of physics would allow. She could march right into Jack’s office, as she had done so many times before, and refuse to move until he talked to her. Or… well, there were other options, as her bath had so inconveniently reminded her.

Except -- except -- what if Jack wouldn’t even look at her, let alone talk? Or what if he _did_ talk, but he wanted parts of her that she couldn’t give? What if it was all too much for him, and he went running scared? Perhaps talking to Jack would be the end for them, and that -- that simply couldn’t be borne.

“Dot,” said Phryne, “Get your purse. We’re going out.”

“Where, Miss?” asked Dot.

“Wherever the wind takes us.” Some fresh air, a nice long drive -- surely that would help to clear her head.

In the end, the wind took them along the coast road to Beaumaris Bay. For once, Phryne even tried to stick to the speed limit, out of respect for Dot’s nerves. Well, mostly. (There was only so much that a woman could take, and some long stretches just _demanded_ to be taken at a decent speed.) When they reached the bay, Phryne bought them both ice creams, and they spent a pleasant hour watching the gulls and discussing the latest issue of Women’s Choice, which had caused quite a scandal with its article on young Australians in Paris. Phryne almost felt herself burst with pride when she considered Jane’s contributions to the piece.

Miraculously, and to Phryne’s great relief, no one was murdered the entire time they were there. (She firmly forced herself not to listen to the voice telling her that a murder might help, just a bit -- it would give her an excuse to talk to Jack without mentioning… certain things.) When seagulls and magazines ceased to hold their attention, they made their way back to St Kilda, where Dot excused herself to prepare for her evening with Hugh. On impulse, Phryne told her that she must take the whole of tomorrow off, not just the afternoon. Dot tried to object, but Phryne would have none of it.

Phryne devoted her evening to catching up with Jane, who had thrown herself back into her studies since her return from Paris. Although Phryne herself had little inclination toward the academic life, it was a joy to hear her ward discuss both human biology and Chaucer with equal delight. In a few years time, she would take every prize on offer at Melbourne University, Phryne was sure.

And that was something, at least, Phryne reminded herself: no matter what happened, even if Jack should run off to become a goat herder in Nepal, she would still have Jane’s achievements, and Dot’s warm, dependable companionship to keep her going.

(But, oh, the thought of life without Jack -- no, Phryne simply could not entertain the possibility.)

Dot arrived home soon after Jane retired for the night; day off or no, Dot was always in at what Aunt Prudence would call a decent hour. Phryne was certain, however, that the smile Dot wore as she took herself off to bed was Hugh-related.

The night grew quiet and still. Phryne could hear the waves in the distance. A car drove slowly along the Esplanade, and came to a stop briefly outside the house, before starting again and driving away. Oh, this was unbearable. For all her efforts, Phryne still didn’t feel like herself, and she was beginning to wonder if she would ever feel right again. (“Of course you’ll feel right again,” said a voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Mac. “Don’t be ridiculous, old girl.”)

Phryne wiped a hand across her eyes and sighed. She would figure something out.

She just wished she knew _what_.

* * *

Two of Mr Butler’s finest cocktails ensured that Phryne slept through the night. When she awoke the next morning, she could hear the telephone ringing downstairs. She closed her eyes again when she heard Mr Butler take the call, but a minute later, she heard a soft knock at her door.

“Miss Fisher,” said Mr Butler, “I’m afraid Mrs Stanley is asking for you on the ‘phone. She says she must speak with you urgently.”

Aunt Prudence? What in the world could she want at this hour, Phryne wondered. “I’ll be right down,” said Phryne, not quite managing to suppress a yawn.

“I’ll prepare some coffee for you,” said Mr Butler. Truly, that man was a miracle.

“Oh, Phryne,” said Aunt Prudence, when her niece picked up the receiver, “it’s absolutely terrible, I can’t believe it!”

“What?” said Phryne, becoming alert at once. “What’s happened, Aunt P?”

“My mother’s gold brooch,” said Aunt Prudence. “It was stolen last night, from one of the spare rooms. You must come around at once!”

“Of course,” said Phryne, her stomach suddenly tying itself into a knot. 

“But please, Phryne,” Aunt Prudence continued, “you mustn’t inform the police. I’ll explain when you get here, but this is a matter that requires the utmost discretion.” The knot in Phryne’s stomach disappeared, but it was replaced with something sharp and hollow.

“Whatever you say, Aunt P.”

“Are you quite all right, Phryne?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Phryne lied.

“Well,” said Aunt Prudence, “just be sure that you bring yourself here as soon as you possibly can. I really am quite beside myself.”

She set off for Aunt P’s as soon as she’d dressed and finished Mr Butler’s coffee. When she arrived at her Aunt’s abode, Phryne noticed track marks from another automobile in the drive -- though it seemed to have been driven around the back, to the garage. 

Interesting. Aunt Prudence hadn’t mentioned visitors.

Phryne was tempted to investigate this mysterious motor vehicle before anything else; Aunt P must have had a reason for hiding the presence of her guests, and Phryne knew she was unlikely to make any headway into this case unless she uncovered that reason.

Unfortunately, before Phryne had the chance to take herself out to the back of the house, Aunt Prudence came bustling out the front door.

“Phryne, you must come immediately to the scene of the crime. I really am quite… oh, I simply don’t have words for it.”

Phryne began to suspect that Aunt Prudence was actually rather enjoying herself. Certainly, she seemed to take great pleasure in deflecting Phryne’s questions about her guests. And she utterly refused to tell Phryne why she’d been keeping such a valuable brooch in her spare room.

Something was definitely amiss.

When Aunt Prudence stopped outside the spare room, Phryne folded her arms. “Really, Aunt Prudence, I am not going to take another step until you explain.”

Aunt Prudence smiled and opened the door a crack. “Just take a look inside, my dear.” 

All at once, Phryne found herself being shoved -- actually _shoved_ inside. She was so shocked that she didn’t even think to fight back until she heard the door lock behind her.

“Aunt--” Phryne broke off when she saw the familiar figure that emerged from the en suite bathroom. “Jack?”

The good Detective Inspector appeared to be frozen in place. “I -- Mrs Stanley said...”

“She told me that the police wouldn’t be involved,” Phryne managed.

“Me too,” said Jack. “I mean -- you. She said she didn’t want you to know...”

“ _Well,_ ” said Phryne, feeling a sudden warmth along her spine. “Of all the devious, underhanded -- ”

“Illegal -- ”

“-- utterly reprehensible schemes…”

Jack frowned. “And I suspect your Aunt Prudence wasn’t acting alone.”

“Of course not. It must have been Dot. And Hugh as well, I assume.”

“I should have them all arrested.” Jack paused. “Did you know that Constable Collins actually accused me of pining?”

And suddenly Phryne couldn’t help it. She smiled. “Really, Jack? You were pining for me?”

“Certainly not,” said Jack. A hint of colour rose to his cheeks. “I was just a little out of sorts.”

“Ah,” said Phryne. “I must admit, Jack… I have been somewhat out of sorts myself, recently.” She felt the heat rise to her face, as though she were a schoolgirl.

Jack looked at her. “You could have called me,” he said.

Something twisted in Phryne’s stomach. “I thought… you might not want me to. At the station, afterwards, you were...”

Jack closed his eyes for a moment. “I was afraid,” he said at last. “I didn’t want you to tell me that… what happened… would never be repeated.” Jack took a step towards her. “I know you aren’t one be tied down.”

Phryne raised an eyebrow. “Well, not if you’re speaking metaphorically.”

Jack looked stunned for a moment, and then he laughed. Only for a moment, though, before his face grew serious again. “Phryne…”

“Oh, _Jack_.” Phryne had to swallow, suddenly, against the lump rising in her throat. She closed the distance between them and let her hand come to rest on his arm. “We have been behaving rather like children, haven’t we?”

Jack smiled, just a little. “Believe me, Miss Fisher, I could never mistake you for a child.” 

He raised a hand to her cheek, and Phryne leaned into it. The warmth in her chest spread to the rest of her body. Jack’s lips parted, and he leaned in towards her.

There was nothing else for it. Phryne kissed him again.


End file.
